Remembering

I continue to sift through all of these wonderful old family photos and feel the powerful mixed emotions that come with the memories they evoke.



I love this one so much. My brother, chewing the ice off his mitten (my son does the same thing). My sister, looking like she's falling asleep against my dad's neck. Or maybe just closing her eyes against the glare of the sun. But either way, getting comfort from the warmth of his face against her forehead. Me, quietly hanging out on my dad's back, happy as a clam to be there, hands rubber-banded inside my snow jumper.

I'm sure this was taken at Gunstock, in Gilford, NH, where we all learned to ski. And this day, we were probably there to watch the ski jumping, my dad's old sport.

My father and brother were the most incredible skiers. You know the ones. The graceful gliders who move silently across the snow as if they are dancing with the mountain? Skis impossibly close together, effortlessly turning with the dips and moguls as they soar down the mountain, no fear, blissfully unaware of the watching eyes on the chairlift above them. Only enjoying the connection between ski and snow and the delicious wind on their faces.

I don't see many skiers like that any more, actually. But every so often I do. And I remember those childhood days. I remember my brother, especially, and all his grace. And I try again, to find my own.